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The Seventh Scroll tes-2

Page 7

by Wilbur Smith

gates to the estate were made of ornate cast iron. A little further on,

  the road divided and a cluster of road signs pointed the way to the

  various destinations: "Quenton Hall, Private', "Estate Office' and

  "Museum'.

  The road to the museum curved through the deer park where herds of

  fallow deer grazed under the winter'bare oaks. Through the misty

  landscape she had glimpses of the big house. According to the guidebook

  that the Prof had given her, Sir Christopher Wren had designed the house

  in 1693, and the master landscapist, Capability Brown, had created the

  gardens sixty years later. The results were perfection.

  The museum was set in a grove of copper beech trees half a mile beyond

  the house. It was a sprawling building that had obviously been added to

  more than once over the years. Mrs. Street was waiting for her at the

  side door, and introduced herself as she let Royan in. She was middle

  aged, grey-haired and self-assured. "I was at your lecture on Monday

  evening. Fascinating! I have a guidebook for you, but you will find the

  exhibits well catalogued and described.

  I have spent almost twenty years at the job. There are no other visitors

  today. You will have the place to yourself.

  You must just wander around and please yourself. I shall not leave until

  five this evening, so you have all afternoon.

  If I can help you in any way my office is at the end of the passage.

  Please don't hesitate."

  From the first moment that Royan walked into the display of African

  mammals she was enthralled. The primate room housed a complete

  collection of every single species of ape and monkey from that

  continent: from the great ilver-backed male gorilla to the delicate

  colobus in his long flowing mantle of black and white fur, they were all

  represented.

  Although some of the exhibits were over a hundred years old, they were

  beautifully preserved and presented, set in painted dioramas of their

  natural habitat. It was obvious that the museum must employ a staff of

  skilled artists and taxidermists. She could guess what this must have

  cost. Wryly she decided that the five million'dollars from the sale of

  the plundered treasure had been well spent.

  She went through to the antelope room and stared around her in wonder at

  the magnificent beasts preserved here. She stopped before a diorama of a

  family group of the giant sable antelope of the now extinct Angolan

  variety, Hippotragus niger variant. While she admired the jet black and

  snowy-chested bull with his long, back-swept horns, she mourned his

  death at the hand of one of the Quenton, Harper family. Then she checked

  herself. Without the strange dedication and passion of the

  hunter-collector who had killed him, future generations might never have

  been able to look upon this regal presence.

  She passed on into the next hall which was given over to displays of the

  African elephant, and paused in the centre of the room before a pair of

  ivory tusks so large that she could not believe they had ever been

  carried by a living animal. They seemed more like the marble columns of

  some Hellenic temple to Diana, the goddess of the chase.

  She stooped to read the printed catalogue card:

  Tusks of the African Elephant, Loxodonta africana.

  Shot in the Lado Enclave in 1899 by Sir Jonathan Quenton-Harper. Left

  tusk 289 lb. Right tusk 301 lb. Length of larger tusk 11' 4'. Girth 32".

  The largest pair of tusks ever taken by a European hunter.

  They stood twice as high as she was tall, and they were half as thick

  again as her waist. As she passed on into the Egyptian room

  she-marvelled at the size and strength of the creature that had carried

  them.

  She came up short as her eyes fell upon the figure in the centre of the

  room. It was a fifteen-foot-high figure of Rarnesses 11, depicted as the

  god Osiris in polished red granite. The god-emperor strode out on

  muscular legs, wearing only sandals on his feet and a short kilt. In his

  left hand he carried the remains of a warlbow, with both the upper and

  lower limbs of the weapon broken off. This was the only damage that the

  statue had suffered in all those thousands of years. The rest of it was

  perfect - the plinth even bore the marks of the mason's chisel. In his

  right fist Pharaoh carried a seal embossed with his royal cartouche.

  Upon his majestic head he wore the tall double crown of the upper and

  lower kingdoms. His expression was calm and enigmatic.

  Royan recognized the statue instantly, for its twin i stood in the grand

  hall of the Cairo museum. She passed it every day on her way to her

  office.

  She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her

  very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's

  sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the

  great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her

  emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to

  read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.

  The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: "I

  am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots - Fear me, of ye

  enemies of Egypt."

  Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice

  close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone

  approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.

  His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.

  There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn

  but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers - the type of genteel shabbiness

  that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem

  too concerned with one's appearance.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," He smiled eazy.

  'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly "t smi

  crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.

  "Oh, it's you." She should have been flattered that he remembered her

  from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his

  eyes again that offended her.

  Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.

  "Nick Quenton-Harper," he introduced himself. "You must be Percival

  Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.

  Weren't you beating for us?"

  His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles

  subsiding as she responded, "Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew

  my husband, Duraid Al Simma."

  "Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time

  in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?"

  "He's dead." She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but

  then there was no other reply she could think of.

  "I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?"

  "Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.

  "Oh, my God." She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that

  he also had suffered. "I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four

  months ago. He was his old charming s
elf Have they found the person who

  did it?"

  She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face

  him and let him see that her eyes were wet. "You have an extraordinary

  collection here."

  He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my

  grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring - Over Bearing, as his

  numerous enemies called him. He was the British man in . Cairo during-'

  She cut him short. "Yes, I have heard of Evelyn Baring, the first Earl

  of Cromer, British Consul-General of Egypt from 1883 to 1907. With his

  plenipotentiary powers he was the unchallenged dictator of my country

  for all that period. Numerous enemies, as you say."

  Nicholas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Percival warned me you were one of

  his best students. He didn't, however, warn me of your strong

  nationalistic feelings. It is clear that you didn't need me to translate

  the Ramesses inscription for you."

  "My own father was on the staff of Gama! Abdel Nasser," she murmured.

  Nasser was the man who had toppled the puppet King Farouk and finally

  broken the British power in Egypt. As president he had nationalized the

  Suez Canal in the face of British outrage.

  "HaV he chuckled. "Different sides of the track. But things have

  changed. I hope we don't have to be enemies?"

  "Not at all," she agreed. "Duraid held you in the highest esteem."

  "As I did him." He changed the subject again. "We ar very proud of our

  collection of royal ushabd Examples from the tomb of every pharaoh from

  the old Kingdom onwards, right up to the last of the Ptolemys. Please

  let me show it to you." She followed him to the huge display case that

  occupied one complete wall of the hall. It was lined with shelf after

  shelf of the doll-like figures which had been placed in the tombs to act

  as servants and slaves for the dead kings in the shadow world.

  With his own key Nicholas opened the glazed doors of the case and

  reached up to bring down the most interesting of the exhibits. "This is

  the ushabd of Maya who served under three pharaohs, Tutankhamen, Ay and

  Horemheb.

  It is from the -tomb of Ay who died in 1343 Bc."

  He handed the doll to her and she read aloud the three thousand-year-old

  hieroglyphics as easily as though they had been the headlines of that

  morning's newspaper.

  "I am Maya, Treasurer of the two Kingdoms. I will answer for the divine

  Pharaoh Ay. May he live for ever!" She spoke in Arabic to test him, and

  his reply in the same language was fluent and colloquial, "It seems that

  Percival Dixon told me the truth. You must have been an exceptional

  student."

  Engrossed now in their common interest, speaking alternately Arabic and

  English, the initial sharp prickles.of antagonism between them were

  dulled. They moved slowly round the hall, lingering before each display

  case to handle and examine minutely each object that it contained.

  It was as though they were transported back over the millennia. Hours

  and days seemed of no consequence in the face of such antiquity, and so

  it startled both of them when Mrs. Street returned to interrupt them, "I

  am off now, Sir Nicholas. Can I leave it to you to lock up and set the

  alarm? The security guards are on duty already."

  "What time is it?"Nicholas answered his own question by glancing at the

  stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist. "Five-forty already, what

  on earth happened to the day?" He sighed theatrically. "Off you go, Mrs.

  Street. Sorry we kept you so long."

  "Don't forget to set the alarm," she warned him, and then to Royan, "He

  can be so absent-minded when he is off on one of his hobby-horses." Her

  fondness towards her employer was obviously that of an indulgent aunt.

  "You've given me enough orders for one day. Off you go," Nicholas

  grinned, as he turned back to Royan. "Can't let you go without showing

  you something that Duraid."was in on with me. Can you stay for a few

  minutes longer?" She nodded and he reached out as if to take her arm,

  and then dropped his hand. In the Arab world it is insulting to touch a

  woman, even in such a casual manner. She was aware of the courtesy, and

  she warmed to his good manners and easy style a little more.

  He led her out of the exhibition halls through a door marked "Private.

  Staff Only', and down a long corridor to the room at the end.

  The inner sanctum." He ushered her in. "Excuse the mess'. I must really

  get around to tidying up in here one of these years. My wife used to-'

  He broke off abruptly, and he glanced at the silver-framed photograph of

  a family group on his desk. Nicholas and a beautiful dark-haired woman

  sat on a picnic rug under the spreading branches of an oak. There were

  two little girls with them and the family resemblance to the mother was

  strong in both of them. The youngest child sat on Nicholas's lap while

  the elder girl stood behind them, holding the reins of her Shetland

  pony. Royan glanced sideways at him and saw the devastating sorrow in

  his eyes.

  So as not to embarrass him she looked around the rest of the room, which

  was obviously his study and workshop.

  It was spacious and comfortable, a man's room, but it illustrated the

  contradictions of his character - the bookish scholar set against the

  man of action. Amongst the muddle of books and museum specimens lay

  fishing reels and a Hardy split cane salmon rod. On a row of wall hooks

  hung a Barbour jacket, a canvas shotgun slip and a leather cartridge bag

  embossed with the initials ..-.

  She recognized some of the framed pictures on the walls. They were

  original nineteenth-century watercolours by the Scottish traveller David

  Roberts, and others by Vivant Denon who had accompanied Napoleon's

  L'armie de I'Orient to Egypt. They were fascinating views of the

  monuments drawn before the excavations and restorations of more modern

  times.

  Nicholas went to the fireplace and threw a log on the fading coals. He

  kicked it until it flared up brightly and then beckoned her to stand in

  front of the floor-to-ceiling curtains that covered half of one wall.

  With a conjuror's flourish he pulled the tasselled cord that opened the

  curtains and exclaimed with satisfaction, "

  "What do you make of that, then?"

  She studied the magnificent has-relief frieze that was mounted on the

  wall. The detail was beautiful and the rendition magnificent, but she

  did not let her admiration show. Instead she gave her opinion in offhand

  tones.

  "Sixth King of the Amorite dynasty, Hammurabi, about 1780 Bc," she said,

  pretending to study the finely chiselled features of the ancient monarch

  before she went on, "Yes, probably from his palace site south-west of

  the ziggurat at Ashur. There should have been a pair of these friezes.

  They are worth in the region of five million US dollars each. My guess

  is that they were stolen from the saintly ruler of modern Mesopotamia,

  Saddam Hussein, by two unprincipled rogues. I hear that the other one of

  the pair is at present in the collection of a certain Mr Peter Walsh in


  Texas."

  He stared at her in astonishment, and then burst out laughing. "Damn it!

  I swore'Duraid to secrecy but he must have told you about our naughty

  little escapade." It was the first time she had heard him laugh. It

  seemed to come naturally to his lips and she -liked the sound of it,

  hearty and unaffected.

  "You are right about the present owner of the second frieze," he told

  her, still laughing. "But the price was six million, not five."

  "Duraid also told me about your visit to the Tibesti Massif in Chad and

  southern Libya," she remarked, and he shook his head in mock contrition.

  'it seems I have no secrets from you." He went to a tall armoire against

  the opposite wall. It was a magnificent piece of marquetry furniture,

  probably seventeenth-century French. He opened the double doors and

  said, "This is what Duraid and I brought back from Libya, without the

  consent of Colonel Muammar al Gadaffi."He took down one of the exquisite

  little bronzes and handed it to her. It was the figure of a mother

  nursing her infant, and it had a green patina of age.

  "Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca," he said, "about 203 BC. These were

  found by a band of Tuareg at one of his old camps on the Bagradas river

  in North Africa.

  Hannibal must have cached them there before his defeat by the Roman

  general Scipio. There were over two hundred bronzes in the hoard, and I

  still have fifty of the best of them."

  "You sold the rest of them?" she asked, as she admired the statuette.

  There was disapproval in her tone as she went on, "How could you bear to

  part with something so beautiful?"

  He sighed unhappily, "Had to, I am afraid. Very sad, but the expedition

  to retrieve them cost me a fortune. Had to cover expenses by selling

  some of the booty."

  He went to his desk and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky

  from the bottom drawer. He placed the bottle on the desk top and set two

  glasses beside it.

  "Can I tempt you?" he asked, but she shook her head.

  "Don't blame you. Even the Scots themselves admit that this brew should

  only be drunk in sub-zeiro weather on The Hill, in a forty-knot gale,

  after stalking and shooting a ten-point stag. May I offer you something

  a little more ladylike?"

  Do you have a Coke?" she suggested.

  Yes, but that is really bad for you, even worse than Laphroaig. It's all

 

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